


We Are More Than a Sword

by Ghrelt



Series: We Taught Ourselves to Love [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, One-Shot, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25241350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghrelt/pseuds/Ghrelt
Summary: A bloody battlefield is no place to meet the love of your life.  Or is it?
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: We Taught Ourselves to Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830847
Comments: 36
Kudos: 597





	We Are More Than a Sword

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you don't let your creative ideas flow. They wake you up at 5 am and make you do their will. 
> 
> Comments always appreciated, and come join the [discord! ](https://discord.gg/kDJpjxx)

It doesn’t start with a kiss.

It starts with a dagger driven through the heart and continues that way for a long time.

The blade through the heart isn’t a metaphor, but it could be. Nicolo heals every wound without a scar but somehow, Yusuf leaves himself indelibly there anyway.

They don’t learn each other’s names. Not at first. Not for a long time.

Not the first time Nicolo wins the day, cleaving Yusuf nearly in two with an obscenely long sword not even a moon’s cycle later.

That might end up being a metaphor too, though for an entirely different thing. And certainly far more pleasant for both when they finally get around to it.

They won’t get around to it for a long, long time yet.

And they kill each other a handful of times before they learn to recognise the other. The first time is a shock. Denial. Everyone looks the same at the end of a sword.

It starts with a gleam in Yusuf’s eye, for Nicolo. Something about him. That fire. That intelligence.

That hatred.

That’s what Nicolo recognises first.

He disbelieves his own eyes at the beginning. Then over time he comes to seek out that familiar gleam on the battlefield. Not even he knows why.

The man haunts his dreams.

It’s Nicolo’s lips that Yusuf notices.

Which is patently ridiculous. Why should anyone notice the lips of the man they kill. And then kill again. And again.

He’s watched the lips of this infidel invader part in surprise. Shock. Twist in rage. Drip blood down his chin. And roar as he rushes into battle.

He too disbelieves his eyes. Others do not have his gift. Certainly not others like _him._ But over time he has to acknowledge the truth: this same man he has killed at least a handful of times. And keeps returning for more.

Until one fateful day when each deals the blow to the other, sinking their blades deep in a macabre dance where they slay each other almost in unison.

When they wake, the battle has moved on and they are left in a field of carnage. The swords took their time working out of flesh and bone and muscle. That always makes it take longer.

On shaking legs they rise to their feet in the early dawn, sword in hand. 

The _wrong_ sword in hand.

Each man stares at their own blade. Each holds a weapon soaked in their own blood.

Brown eyes meet blue through faces spattered in more of the red, and something is different this time. 

They’ve never seen each other in the aftermath. The pained exhaustion of resurrection.

Each had thought his was a holy gift. That the other’s god was a lie; an excuse for murder and other unspeakable things. But here they are. Each stands after falling, many times.

The implications are beyond unsettling. 

Nicolo speaks first and Yusuf does not understand the words.

The posture conveys them well enough. A slump of shoulders. The way the tip of the curved sword dips. Shudders faintly.

_I am tired of killing you._

For a moment Yusuf considers striking. Winning this round. But in an instant he sees how this cycle never ends if this is all he allows it to be. They can be mortal enemies for eternity.

But perhaps—

Perhaps they were not meant to be?

He lets the tip of Nicolo’s sword fall to the sand and his own follows a moment later. They are left standing. Staring. Close enough to kill.

Close enough to kiss, though such thoughts are still far in their future yet.

Eventually they lean the sword hilts together. Their hands brush as they let go, each taking their own. And instead of striking the other down, each cleans his bloody blade and returns it to its home at their side.

And as sheathed weapons they turn from the battlefield. Together.


End file.
